


Hold Me

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL the steve and bucky feels, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, BROTHERS2INFINITY, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgame Fix-It, Endgame compliant, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Birthday Steve!, Hurt/Comfort, I repeat:, Men Crying, Nightmares, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Sleepy Cuddles, Tears, Two Steves theory, boatloads of it, it's actually not a theory, it's more like canon compliant headcanon which is the only canon I accept, they both need hugs, they get them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: He slept and he dreamed.He dreamed of Bucky falling, Bucky dying. He dreamed of being alone.But then he woke, and he was not alone.***He slept and he dreamed.He dreamed of pain, and things worse than death. He dreamed of being abandoned.But then he woke, and he had not been abandoned.Because Bucky is alive, and there is no universe in which Steve would choose to leave him.





	Hold Me

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wanted to get this out earlier, but Steve's birthday is not a recognized holiday in my country. And I work on a farm anyway...
> 
> So this is just all the Endgame/post-Endgame emotional hurt/comfort you could ask for. It's actually even softer than I usually get, but I desperately needed this. Yes, this follows all my other Brothers2Infinity fics, especially _To the End... of Infinity_. This time I decided to include an explanation for my fix-it. 'Two Steves' was originally dreamed up by Griselda_Banks and SergeantToMyCaptain, and I'm running with it. Because Steve Rogers doesn't know _how_ to be selfish. Except when it comes to Bucky Barnes. And it _is_ canon compliant because the only canon is the movies themselves.  
> These two guys are best pals, best _brothers_ , and they've got a lot more birthdays to celebrate together.  
> Happy Birthday, Steve! 
> 
> The song accompanying this is "You Are The Reason" by Calum Scott.
> 
> Also a thousand thanks to my girls who continue to aide and abet my obsession. We'll get those hugs in someday!

_There goes my heart beating_  
_And you are the reason_  
_I’m losing my sleep_  
_Please come back now_  
_And there goes my mind racing_  
_And you are the reason_  
_That I’m still breathing_  
_I’m hopeless now_

_“Steve?”_

_The call came from behind him and he turned instantly, knowing, dreading. Or he_ tried _to turn._

_He couldn’t move. He was frozen, staring straight ahead, listening to the sound of… nothing behind him._

_Then the call came again._

_“Steve?”_

_He heard the footsteps, crunching in the undergrowth, Bucky moving toward him._

_Bucky calling out, reaching for Steve, even as he…_

“Bucky!”

_The scream burned the back of Steve’s throat, but no sound escaped him. He fought his invisible bonds, desperate to turn and face his friend one last time, to see those eyes holding his before…_

“No! Please, no!”

_He was writhing and twisting, at least inside; fighting the anger, fear, terror, and pain that threatened to choke him. But his body refused to move._

_“Steve.”_

_And now it was only an echo, fading into the breeze, carried away like a swirl of ash…_

_Bucky. Bucky had died while Steve stood with his back turned, like he hadn’t heard, like he didn’t even care._

_Steve thought he would die of the agony, a fire devouring him, and yet never burning him away, never leaving him to fall into ash himself, where he might at least join his brother as a whisper on the wind._

_Why? Because Steve didn’t deserve that. He had failed, failed once again to protect Bucky, to save him from losing his life yet one more time._

_Bucky had never done anything to deserve that._

_And Steve had stood by and watched it happen._

_Once again, Bucky was gone._

Gone.

_Steve went limp._

_He was falling, falling, falling._

_No, he wasn’t, Bucky was. Bucky was falling, no, not again, nononono!_

_“Bucky!”_

_The word broke from him, though as a whisper or a shout, Steve couldn’t tell. He was reaching, straining everything he had to grab Bucky’s hand. One glimpse of the terrified eyes, pleading for help, and their fingers brushed._

_Steve’s hand closed around Bucky’s, catching him stopping his fall._

Hold on, I gotcha! _were the words on Steve lips, but before he could shift his position to pull Bucky closer, he noticed that his grip was slipping. He opened his mouth to shout, but then he saw that Bucky’s hand wasn’t slipping. It was_ disintegrating. _Crumbling away to dust in Steve fist._

_Steve had time for nothing more than a single, “No.” Before the hand dissolved completely, and Bucky fell away._

_Down, down, but into darkness this time, not the pure white snow. He had lived then, if you could call it living. But he would not survive this. Because that was the darkness of death._

_Steve did not hesitate to throw himself after Bucky. But once more he was frozen, a block of cold, unfeeling ice, watching his best friend fall._

_Again._

_I’d climb every mountain_  
_And swim every ocean_  
_Just to be with you_  
_And fix what I’ve broken_  
_Cause I need you to see_  
_That you are the reason_

Steve was awake in the darkness. He knew he was awake, because he could move, he was sitting up, struggling with the blanket tangled around his legs. He also knew he was awake because he could feel. He could feel himself shaking all over, feel the hot tears on his cheeks, feel the way his chest hurt as he fought to pull in the air his lungs demanded.

He could hear too. Hear his heart thundering in his ears, hear his stuttering breaths, hear himself sobbing out, “God, no! Please. Bucky. B-B-Buck!”

“Steve?”

Louder now, so it registered in his thoughts: “Steve!”

Scrambling, thumping noises, then a warm light flooded the room.

Steve was struggling to breathe through the tears, the pain of an old wound torn open.

“Steve?”

That was exactly how Bucky had called him the final time, and Steve…

The mattress sagged under someone else’s weight. Hands gripped his wrists, gently tugging his fingers out of his hair. “Breathe, Stevie. Just breathe. Can you hear me, buddy? Just breathe.”

The hands were… different; one was warm flesh-and-bone, the other slightly cool, smooth metal. Steve could feel them, now holding his hands, firm, but gentle.

“It’s okay, Steve. I’m right here. Just breathe now, okay? Can you look at me?”

A strong, warm thumb rubbed over the back of Steve’s left hand, slow circles. It caught Steve, tethering him to reality, gave him something to focus on. Gasping, fighting back the grief that threatened to pull him down completely, Steve lifted his head, squinted though the tears.

“Buck-ky?”

“Shhh, I’m right here, Stevie, it’s okay.” A bearded face, dark hair, dark eyes.

Steve shuddered with another round of sobs, and tightened his grip. “But- I thought– I th-thought, thought you– Were…”

“Dead,” Bucky finished.

“You- you _fell_ ,” Steve choked out. “Right in- in front- of me. You were _dying_ , and I didn’t– You- you called my name–”

It was getting really hard to talk. He was hanging on to Bucky’s hands for dear life, but he didn’t know anymore which one of them was about to fall.

“You called… my name, and I-I-I…” He gasped for breath. “I _didn’t answer.”_ The words broke out on another wrenching sob. “I- just- stood- there- and- watched- you- _die!_ ”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice was as steady as Earth’s bedrock. “Look at me.”

Steve blinked through the fog of tears, and realized he was now holding only one of Bucky’s hands between both of his own. Something cool brushed his cheek; metal fingers strong enough to crush bones, wiping tears from his eyes.

Somehow, Bucky found his gaze and held it. He spoke slowly and clearly, each word laden with emotion.

“I’m not dead. I’m right here. With you.” Bucky’s metal hand settled on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m alive, because you saved me.” A hint of a smile. “Again.”

Steve stared into that face, close enough to smell the hint of mint toothpaste on Bucky’s breath. Then the view of those dark blue eyes blurred again. Steve bowed his head, felt the tears dripping onto his hands, and the fingers wrapped around his that neither pulled away, nor crumbled.

The metal hand cupped the back of Steve’s neck, fingers threading through his hair. Warm breath ghosted against his skin, before Bucky kissed his forehead, firmly. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Blinded by tears, unable to breathe through the sudden wave of sobs that engulphed him, Steve felt _himself_ crumbling. Desperately he flung out both hands, and found Bucky’s solid body to wrap his arms around, his anchor in the storm.

Steve clung to Bucky, fingers fisted around handfuls of t-shirt, face buried against Bucky’s chest, soaking the fabric. Steve was crying so hard he couldn’t think; he could only feel. He couldn’t breathe, he was shaking all over, the sobs torn out of him, thick and fast. It was as if his chest was being broken open, or was it just his heart being ripped apart all over again?

He was falling apart like he had in a bombed-out London bar, shattering as he had in an ash-sprinkled field in Wakanda.

But this time was different.

Because the strong arms that held him, the head bent protectively over his own, the voice whispering in his ear, the heartbeat that pulsed against his cheek… all of that was Bucky.

Bucky.

Bucky.

_Bucky._

Steve might have been falling apart, but he couldn’t _fall apart_ , because Bucky held him together.

Wrapped in the warmth of his brother’s embrace, bound by the strength of Bucky’s love, Steve discovered something: he could breathe.

 _There goes my hands shaking_  
_And you are the reason_  
_My heart keeps bleeding_  
_I need you now_  
_And If I could turn back the clock_  
_I’d make sure the light defeated the dark_  
_I’d spend every hour of every day_  
_Keeping you safe_

Steve didn’t know how long it was before he finally stopped crying, and Bucky gently shifted their positions so he could lie on the bed, his back propped against the wall. Steve sprawled half on top of Bucky, his head on the other man’s chest, still holding on.

Both of them were quiet now, Bucky softly running his metal fingers through Steve’s hair, occasionally brushing a few more tears from Steve’s flushed cheeks. His breathing still ragged, Steve closed his eyes and pressed his ear over Bucky’s heart, letting the sound of life wash away the echoes of death.

It felt good to lie like this, covering Bucky with his own body, protecting him. Even as he felt Bucky’s protective arms around _him_.

There had been countless times Bucky had covered him; when a gang of rough boys got too big, and Steve had no breath left to run, and Bucky would dive on top of him, a shield against the hail of blows. Steve could remember how he would have gladly placed himself between those bullies and Bucky, but Bucky was the bigger one, stronger, and a small part of Steve had acknowledged that some of those beatings would probably have put Steve in the hospital, which his mom couldn’t exactly afford. Still, any chance Steve got to protect his brother—from _anything_ —he took.

In the war those chances had been a little more obvious, and a little more frequent. Steve had a sudden vivid recollection of a surprise mortar attack, yanking Bucky sideways and down, rolling on top of his friend, covering him while the shells rained down and dirt filled the air. He remembered the ear-ringing hush when the firing ceased, Bucky’s breathing underneath him, quick and shallow. Steve had moved first, clambering to his feet, pulling Bucky up beside him. No one had been killed, though Steve had taken a chunk of shrapnel in one arm. A chunk of shrapnel that had been headed for Bucky’s heart.

So, Steve knew what it was to be shielded by someone, and what it was to shield someone else.

Steve sniffed, drew in a deeper breath. “Bucky?” he croaked. He cleared his throat, and ducked his chin a bit, afraid to even try to look in Bucky’s eyes. “Buck, I’m sorry.” He caught Bucky’s wrist and pressed the cool metal palm to his cheek, closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t–”

“Stop it,” Bucky interrupted. “Just… stop.” Steve felt him take a deep breath, before letting it out in a long sigh. He gave his head a shake. “Punk,” he muttered. Bucky rubbed his thumb gently over Steve’s cheekbone, moving his flesh hand to rest on Steve’s shoulder. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Look at me, Steve.”

It was a little awkward, with the way he was lying, but slowly, Steve lifted his head, shifting more of his weight to the elbow resting on the mattress. He still gripped Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky tilted his head to one side, looking earnestly down at him; he caught Steve’s gaze, and held it. “Stevie, you are the best person I have ever known. The strongest, bravest, craziest, dumbest, most caring brother I could have asked for.”

Those piercing blue eyes held Steve, the warm words cascading over him.

“I’ve seen you fall, and I’ve seen you get back up. I’ve seen you fight battles you should never have won. I’ve seen you hold back Thanos with your bare hands.” Bucky’s tone intensified, though the words still came steadily. “You tried and you failed. Then you tried and you succeeded. And that’s what matters to me. That’s what I know. I know that I was dead—I don’t remember, but I don’t need to. I know that I was dead. And I know that I am alive again. _And_ I know that you are the reason. You might not have been the only one, but you’re the one that matters most to me.”

Bucky caught his breath, and swallowed hard; his eyes now very bright. “You’re Steve, you’re my best friend, and _you_ are the reason that I’m alive.”

There was a moment’s silence, the two men staring at each other, before he added. “Even you aren’t a big enough idiot to apologize for that.”

Steve blinked, felt the tears sliding down his face, and let his head fall forward against Bucky’s chest again. _Oh, God._

For five years he had grieved and found no comfort, never able to completely accept his losses, or let go of his guilt. Every night they had haunted his dreams, and every night he had woken to aching loneliness. Sharon, Sam, Bucky…

A dream of Bucky was the worst. Maybe it was because he’d lost him in so many painful ways before, or maybe it was the memory of the far-too-short time he’d had his brother back, time which had only served to deepen their friendship. Bucky had always been his best friend, the one who saw in him what no one but his mother seemed to see, the one who fought for him and leaned on him, and held him together when his world fell apart. Bucky cared for him, and Steve in his turn cared for Bucky. What had begun all those years ago as a simple boyish camaraderie, had grown into something much deeper, a powerful bond of brotherly love.

When he lost Bucky, Steve lost his brother, his family, his best friend. When Bucky fell, so did a chunk of Steve’s heart. A chunk that Steve—no matter how many times he did (or didn’t) try—was unable to really live without. He had only just gotten that back, only just begun to build a new life for himself, before once more Bucky was violently snatched away. And once more, Steve was left to pick up the pieces.

How many times had he jerked awake and lain in the dark, alone with the shadows and pain? He didn’t know; it was too often for even his enhanced memory to be sure of.

But lying here, now, surrounded by light and warmth and the undeniable presence of his brother, each beat of Bucky’s heart pushed those long bleak days a little further away, and each breath Bucky took under Steve’s hand filled in that gnawing, aching emptiness a little more.

“Bucky,” he breathed. “Bucky, _Bucky.”_

Bucky pulled him closer, wrapping both arms around Steve and resting his chin on the blond hair, holding him like he was a skinny little kid again. “I’m here, pal,” Bucky whispered. “And I’m not leaving."

Steve let the words echo in his head, memorizing every inflection of Bucky’s voice, before they soaked into his heart. He was still crying, but this... this was more like a soft spring rain, melting the last of the snow, washing away the cold and the pain, whispering of new beginnings and hope awakened.

“I’m with you to the end of the line, remember?” There was a smile in Bucky’s voice. “And a line doesn’t end.”

Steve buried his face in Bucky’s shirt, gave a sob that was more than half laugh. “Okay,” he choked out. “Okay."

 _I’d climb every mountain_  
_And swim every ocean_  
_Just to be with you_  
_And fix what I’ve broken_

They lay side-by-side, Steve’s head pillowed on Bucky’s arm, breathing in tandem.

Steve had no idea what time it was, though he could see that it was still dark outside. They’d left the windows open and he thought he could hear water lapping against the dock. A distant call of a loon, the breeze through the leaves.

Bucky shifted a bit, yawned. “Want a drink or something? Remember, we bought Coke and stuff this afternoon,” he added.

Steve felt tired, but not exactly sleepy, and sitting up sipping a can of pop with Buck sounded like a perfect way to spend the rest of the night. “Sure,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. "Yeah."

“Okay.” Bucky pulled away, rolled off the bed and left in his quiet way, only the creak of the door betraying him.

Steve immediately missed his friend’s warmth against his side, and then remembered how Bucky would always wake when Steve got up to take his turn on watch, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, making grumbling noises under his breath. With a sigh, Steve pushed himself up to sit against the wall, felt some bruises and almost-healed ribs protest, rubbed a hand over his face.

On the other side of the room, Bucky’s covers were half-thrown off his bed, no doubt thanks to his hurry when he heard Steve cry out. The two of them had naturally taken the big room with two double beds, while Sam and Wanda each took the two smaller rooms across the hall.

They’d spent the first couple nights in Wakanda, but Steve had gladly taken the offer of a cabin on the lake near the Stark’s, and subsequently a twenty-minute drive from the compound, where clean-up would start in the next few weeks.

Just thinking about that made Steve even more tired. Right now, he just wanted to be near his friends, and especially close to Bucky. Bucky had not hesitated to come with them, after Steve reassured him that his entering the US would not be a problem. They’d stopped at Steve’s tiny apartment in Brooklyn so Steve could grab some clothes and things, then done some group shopping.

Steve cocked his head at the loud creak of a step on the stairs, and half-grinned, almost able to hear Bucky mentally cursing; he _had_ to hit the wrong step on the way back. But there was no sound from either of the others.

Bucky had the bottles of Coke (for Steve) and Pepsi (for himself), but first he handed a cold damp washcloth to Steve. It was the simplest of gestures, but it spoke volumes to Steve, even startling a smile out of him.

"Thanks," he murmured.

It felt so good on his tear-streaked face and Steve had to swallow back a lump in his throat, before he tossed the cloth back to Bucky. Bucky gave him a smile of his own, before he slipped back out.

He was back quicker this time, shut the door silently, but again he hesitated by the bed. “Need anything else?” he asked.

Steve glanced up at him, then down at his hand gripping the cool glass bottle, swallowed hard. “Just… you.”

Without another word, Bucky sank onto the bed beside Steve. With a little smirk at Steve, he popped the caps with his metal hand, and then they sat in near silence, leaning back against the wall, Steve nestled against Bucky’s side, Bucky’s right arm wrapped around him.

The unvarnished wood of the walls gave back the light of the one lamp with a pleasant glow. From where they sat, Steve could see the drawing he had done five, almost six, years ago now for Bucky: a huge white wolf, keeping watch over a little lamb. He had gotten it framed in Wakanda and it had hung proudly on the wall of Bucky’s hut. Until this morning when Bucky had brought it with him; now it hung opposite his bed.

“Remember my birthday?” Steve asked quietly at one point.

“You still got that sketchbook?” Bucky asked.

Steve was silent, seeing the little kids leaning on his shoulders, asking to try the white men’s sodas, the sun shining, the laughter, Bucky’s smile. He had filled that sketchbook with care, all for Bucky, every picture a return gift. It was the only thing of Bucky’s that Steve had taken from his hut when they left Wakanda immediately after… after Thanos. He kept it in his old, beat up duffle bag, the way Bucky had carried his collection of journals. Not once in five years had Steve managed to bring himself to open it.

“Remember my birthday?” Bucky asked.

“Mmm,” Steve said. “We should get Sam to make spaghetti some night.”

“Definitely.”

Steve closed his eyes, felt Bucky’s jaw, scratchy against his temple, where the other man rested his cheek. Outside it began to rain, drops pattering softly against the leaves, and a cool breath of air wafted in the west window.

Steve didn’t even realize he was falling asleep, until Bucky pulled the half-empty Coke bottle out of his hand.

“Go to sleep,” came Bucky’s quiet voice. “I’m right here.”

Even as he wriggled down to rest his head on the pillow, Steve roused enough to ask, “You sure?”

Bucky brushed Steve’s hair back with his metal hand, smiled down at him. “I sleep better when I know you’re safe,” he murmured.

Bucky reached over to switch the light off, before lying next to him, and pulling the blanket over both their legs. He slid his right arm under Steve’s head, rolled onto his side, and draped his metal arm across Steve’s chest, pulling Steve in close.

Sandwiched in that protective hold, warm and safe with Bucky’s arms around him, Steve could do nothing but surrender. He closed his eyes, pressed closer to his friend, tilted his head sideways, earning himself another kiss on his temple. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you back?” 

Bucky’s answer was instant, and infinitely gentle. “It’s not about what you deserve, pal. It’s about what you’ve been given.”

Steve found he was smiling, though whether he was smiling because he was happy, or smiling because he was about to cry, he couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

“I missed you, Buck,” he whispered suddenly. “I can’t even–”

“I know,” came Bucky’s mumble. A soft sigh. “I love you, Stevie.”

“Love you too, Buck.”

With the sounds of the rain and Bucky’s heartbeat as his lullaby, Steve slipped into a peaceful sleep. And when he woke, Bucky was still there, still holding him.

 _Cause I need you to see_  
_That you are the reason_

∞ ∞

Bucky was standing at the sink, half-dressed, dragging a comb through his wet hair. It wasn’t that he hated doing it, it just seemed tedious. He hit the worst snarl yet, and huffed in exasperation. Almost made him wish he was back in Wakanda, where he’d just dive into the river for a bath, and wring out the water when he got out. But he wasn’t in Wakanda, he was in upstate New York, in a lakefront cabin… and someone was knocking on the door.

The bathroom, which was the only one in the house, was small enough for him to reach over and open the door without moving his feet.

“Hey.” Steve smiled at him. “Just need to brush my teeth.”

And that, Bucky thought, as he stepped aside to make room for his friend, was the reason he was here. And he definitely didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He was just standing there, when Steve spat into the sink, and looked up at him in the mirror. “Okay, what’s eating you?” He turned to eye Bucky expectantly, even as he continued brushing.

For a minute or two Bucky had to think, trying to pin this down.

After supper, Wanda had left with Clint’s family, and he, Sam, and Steve had sat around on the porch talking until dark. Well, it had mostly been Sam talking. First, quizzing Steve about how he’d done the whole double thing, for which Steve only gave a brief explanation.

Then of course, demanding to know all the places Steve had been, what he’d done, who he’d met. Steve had said a little more then.

It wasn’t that Steve was unhappy about any of the questions; he was highly amused at Sam’s frequent complaints: “Way to give a younger guy like me a heart attack, Cap,” or “Next time, warn me before you pull a serious joke?” And every time Sam added, "You sure you don't want that shield back?" Steve nodded and smiled and said, "Definitely."

But Bucky could tell there was a lot that Steve himself was still processing, still pondering, especially when he let it slip that he’d actually visited his father at one point. So, Bucky didn’t push him. (Though he couldn’t help getting curious about Asgard.) And he certainly didn’t ask about a certain phone call Steve had said he had to make.

That wasn’t bothering Bucky now, though.

Finally, he just shrugged his bare shoulders, and stared down at the comb he was fiddling with, glanced back up at Steve.

“Why did you come back?”

Steve didn’t actually pause, but his hand holding the toothbrush slowed, and he kept his head down as he rinsed it, washed his mouth out, stuck the brush in the cup beside the sink.

But Bucky couldn’t take the silence. “Why didn’t you stay? I was ready for you to, I thought you _had_. You talked about Peggy, you talked about doing things over. I thought you were trying to tell me that you wanted to go back to that life, the one we– the one you used to have. And I was just trying to tell you that it– that that was okay. That I was okay, that you should do whatever you wanted to do.” Bucky ducked his head, letting his damp hair swing over his face. “I just wanted you to be… happy.”

“But Bucky…” Was Steve smiling? “I am happy.”

It took a moment, before Bucky jerked his head up to look at Steve. As their eyes met, he was smiling.

“ _This_ is where I’m happy. _This_ is where I belong.” Steve turned and leaned back against the wall, let out a long breath.

“Everywhere I went… I saw so much; some stuff I wish I didn’t have to.” His eyes darkened and Bucky guessed he was thinking about Natasha and returning the Stone she had died for. “Some places I knew, some I didn’t. But wherever I went, I just… I didn’t belong there. That wasn’t my place, or my time. Any of them.”

Bucky frowned at him. “But then… why did you do…?”

“That?” Steve finished. He sighed again, and Bucky could tell he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. Bucky hated how Steve was looking so serious again, but he just… had to know.

“You told me: ‘ _Don’t do something you’ll regret. You have enough of those already.’_ And then someone else I talked to,” (Bucky noted Steve’s little smile), “he told me: _‘You can never rewrite your story. But you can write a new one. Or you can help someone else write a better one, one without all the mistakes you made._ ’

“My biggest mistake, the greatest thing I regret… is dunking that plane in the ocean. And not telling Peggy where I was.”

“But…” Bucky gave his head a little shake. “You didn’t know you were going to survive. You couldn’t have guessed–”

“No. I was going to die. Like you.” (Bucky did not like Steve’s eyes when he said that.) “But neither of us did.” Steve looked at Bucky, haunted. “And if I had just given Peggy my coordinates, told her where I was, she would have found me. And I would have found you. I know I would have.”

Now he bowed his head, seemingly unable to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I could have stopped HYDRA from taking over SHIELD. I could have married Peggy, given her everything she deserved. I could have found you and saved you. The Winter Soldier would never have happened. All those people… Tony’s parents would never have been killed. You would have been… okay. Or at least, I could have saved you from the worst. I could have saved you.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to sigh. “Steve…” He turned and hoisted himself up to sit on the counter, rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his mismatched hands. “You can’t… blame yourself for all of _that._ You always tell me–”

“But you deserved better. Peggy deserved better.” Steve shook his head. “A lot of people deserved more than what I gave them. And I know, you’re always telling me: _‘Not “what if?”. But “what is”.’_ But that’s the thing.” Steve gave Bucky the beginnings of a smile. “Now ‘what if?’ _is_.”

Bucky tilted his head, watching the light come back into Steve’s eyes.

“It might not be in this… world, this universe, or whatever you want to call it. But I saw it.” Steve smiled at Bucky, before he slipped into a thousand-yard-stare. “And it was beautiful.” He was silent for several minutes.

_“It was beautiful.”_

Wasn’t that what the other Steve had said to Sam? With the exact same tone? Good grief, this was all a bit crazy, even for Bucky. But the truth was… Bucky knew exactly what Steve was seeing. Whatever he’d said to himself back in 1945, to set that Steve on another path, it would have been just enough to make sure he knew; to make sure he knew what _was,_ and what _could be._ Who was Bucky to talk, anyway? More than once he’d let himself picture the ‘could have been’, asked himself ‘what if?’. And he knew what it looked like. He knew it was beautiful.

“I know.”

Steve started, sucked in a breath, glanced at Bucky. Their eyes met, and Bucky… Bucky took a long deep breath that he didn’t even realize he had been holding. He was smiling at Steve, and Steve was smiling back, and some invisible wall came tumbling down, some missing piece clicked into place. He felt the connection in that glance, he felt _Steve_ in that glance. The flow of thought between the two of them, linking them as sure and strong as any chain. The _understanding._

“But it wasn’t mine,” Steve said softly. “It was his, it was theirs. Not mine.” He took a slow breath, nodded.

“My dad told me: _‘Love the ones you’ve been given to love, in their time and place. Live the life you’ve been given to live, in your time and place.’_ And this…” he spread his hands in a gesture that seemed to include Bucky, the bathroom, the cabin they were in, and the whole messy, beautiful world surrounding them, “is mine. _‘Life is a gift,’_ my dad said. _‘That’s why it’s called the present.’_ And this is ours. Sharon, you, Sam, everyone… I’ve been given a second chance. And I’m not going to waste it.”

In the easy silence that followed, Bucky suddenly slipped off the counter, reaching for Steve. Steve’s eyes were smiling as he pushed away from the wall, and then his arms wrapped around Bucky’s back, firm and warm. Bucky tangled his fingers in Steve’s old shirt, burying his face in the hollow between Steve’s cheek and shoulder, overtaken by a bittersweet kind of happiness.

There was a lot he still didn’t understand, a lot Steve hadn’t explained, though he probably would eventually. But right now, Bucky didn’t care.

He could feel Steve’s cheek pressed against his damp hair, before Steve whispered in his ear, “Thank you, Buck. For letting me go. And taking me back.”

Now Bucky gave a choked little laugh, and hastily pulled away, clearing his throat. “Lines… Lines might bend, but they don’t end.”

Steve’s face crinkled in amusement. “Well. Now you’re a poet, and I didn’t know it.”

Bucky socked him in the shoulder with his metal hand, and they were both laughing.

 _I don’t wanna fight no more_  
_I don’t wanna hide no more_  
_I don’t wanna cry no more_

_He was shackled to the chair, pinned in place so he couldn’t move. He fought it, struggling with all his might. But he couldn’t move a muscle. The room was cold, and he could hear the echo of his gasping breaths._

_He heard something else too: voices._

_They were all around him, shadows, dark and foreboding, talking among themselves._

_“Found him alone… Gone. Left him… found him alone… Does he remember?”_

_Bucky lost his breath, even as his heart began to pound wildly._

_He knew this place; he knew this moment._ Oh, God, no, no, NO! _Steve! Where was Steve?_ Steve, please!

_He sensed a presence beside him, a person. But not warm, no, they were cold, they were cruel, they were… Pain._

_Fingers tangled in his hair, grabbing hold and yanking his head back; it cracked against the cement wall. Through the burst of pain, he saw a face leering down at him; he couldn’t tell who it was, though he knew them._

_“Soldier,” the one voice hissed._

_Bucky felt the movement, knew what was coming, and he flinched. The laughter rang in his ears, as the hand slapped across his cheek._

_The blow fell again and again, each time sharper and harder; in his mind the sound mingled with words. “Fight. Get up and fight. Oh, that’s right. He can’t.”_

_The hand in his hair twisted his head violently, throwing him to the floor. He was frozen there, the guards all around him._

“Plokhaya sobaka.” _“Bad dog” A boot connected with his stomach._

 _He was screaming, without making a sound, but he could feel the tears on his cheeks._ Please, no. Steve. Steve!

_“He’s gone now,” came the voices. “He left you. And he won’t get you away from us now. No one can.”_

_“He remembers,” came the one horrible cold voice. “We’ll wipe him.”_

_He was yanked up to his feet, dragged along the floor…_

_Bucky knew what was coming, knew what they meant to do. And he was terrified._

_Of course, he was afraid of the burn, searing through his head, like his brain was exploding inside his skull… yes, he was afraid of the pain. But more than that, he was terrified of the… the…_ nothing.

_All the beautiful, painful, sweet pictures and voices that filled his memory… gone._

_He would rather die._

_He still could not fight, perhaps they had drugged him. They manhandled him into The Chair, rough hands, hard and pinching. He felt the clamps going around his arms, heard the machines humming._

_He thought his heart would burst with the agony of fear and pain._

NO NO NO!

_And now the words came. “Please. Please don’t. Please.”_

_But there was no answer. Not even taunting laughter, or spitting insults. Only echoing silence, and then the crackle of electricity somewhere behind and above his head._

_“Please. Steve. Steve!”_

_There was no answer and understanding crashed over his head. There was no one there. There was no one to answer, no one to save._

_“Steve! Steve!” He didn’t know if he was whispering or screaming. “STEVE!”_

_Only the echoes mocked him, before they too were swallowed up in the black void. And the only answer to Bucky’s cry was empty silence._

_He knew then, that he was completely and utterly alone._

_Come back, I need you to hold me_  
_A little closer now_  
_Just a little closer now_  
_Come a little closer_  
_I need you to hold me tonight_

“Bucky!”

A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him, it was dark, he was lying on something soft, and someone was looming over him–

He could not hold back the whimper of fear as he jerked out of the person’s grasp, cringing away from the pain, the burning, the terror pressing him flat against the ground… _no, please, no._ “Please no.”

There was a short silence, broken only by his fast, raspy breathing. And someone else’s. Oh, no. They would hit him for that, for speaking out of turn, for _asking…_

He closed his eyes.

“Bucky?”

The word was soft, barely above a whisper.

“Buck. Can you hear me? It’s Steve. I’m here, Buck. I’m right here.”

He stilled, blinking in the dark. “Steve?” he breathed.

A sharp breath from the person beside him, and they seemed to relax. “Yeah,” came that familiar gentle voice. “It’s me. I’m right here.”

Bucky’s mind was spinning, and his voice cracked on the next word he spoke. “Where-?”

“You’re in bed. In a cabin, in upstate New York.” Steve lay beside him, a couple feet away, letting his words reach through the darkness to Bucky, strong and steady, a life line that Bucky grabbed hold of. “Sam’s asleep across the hall. I’m right here. We were looking at my sketchbook before we fell asleep.” A pause. “We had chicken and rice for dinner. Sam did the chicken, I did the rice, we both did the dishes. We had ice cream for dessert. That was good ice cream,” he added.

_Dear, God._

Slowly, Bucky lifted his left hand to rub his face, felt the cooler metal against his skin. Through the open window, he heard loons calling.

He took a breath to say something, and discovered he was shaking. He was shaking all over, as if taken by a chill; he could feel the mattress trembling beneath him.

There was another movement beside him, and something pressed against his flesh hand, which was lying on top of the blanket. He was about to jerk away, before he realized they were fingers, a warm hand sliding underneath his, not grabbing or forcing him, just… there. And then Steve was holding Bucky’s hand, but lightly so Bucky could easily pull away if he wanted to.

Bucky didn’t want to.

“Buck?” Steve asked softly. “What was it? Your dream.”

“Th-they-they-they…” he swallowed the stutter. “Y-you were g-gone.” He couldn’t stop the shaking. “They found me. It was- was so much worse. Because I g-got away. And you-you- weren’t there.” His voice broke on the last word, and he shut his eyes, gripping Steve’s hand with all his strength.

They were both quiet, Steve gently squeezing back, every now and then. Bucky was still trembling from head to foot.

Finally, Steve’s voice came through the dark. “What do you need?”

It took Bucky several seconds to connect his thoughts, but the words came involuntarily.

“H-hold m-me.”

The whisper seemed to hang in the air, though maybe it was just Bucky’s hyperactive senses that played it in slow-motion. Because almost instantly he felt Steve's hand tighten around his… before he let go and slid his arm under Bucky’s shoulders.

Every movement was smooth, deliberate, and so, so gentle. Bucky felt him inching closer, before he rolled onto his side and draped his right arm across Bucky’s chest. His arms were steady, even as Bucky trembled.

Bucky was used to his body healing, forgetting wounds and injuries received in the heat of a fight. But he remembered pain. He remembered a lot of it.

Yet, lying there sandwiched between Steve’s arms, all Bucky could feel was unending tenderness. He was still shaking (maybe not quite as hard?), but he felt Steve hesitating, unsure how much more Bucky could take.

“Buck-?”

Instinctively, Bucky turned toward Steve, pressing into his friend’s warm embrace. The fear and doubt, the shadows that haunted him, were forced to step back as Steve’s arms closed around him, pulling him in to safety.

Steve gave a soft sigh, as he settled them more comfortably, and Bucky felt the breath on his face. Then Steve’s hand came up to stroke the back of Bucky’s head, fingers tangling in Bucky’s hair. If Bucky flinched, Steve didn’t react. Except to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead.

The pure simplicity of that gesture silenced the last of the voices in Bucky’s head. The shivering had subsided to light tremors, and now Bucky let himself go limp, curling his body into Steve’s warmth, his head coming to rest against Steve’s chest.

Steve was here, _right here_ , holding him close, exactly the way Bucky asked, the way Bucky needed. Steve _hadn’t_ left him; he _hadn’t_ abandoned him. Bucky wasn’t alone.

Bucky’s gratitude was only matched by his self-reproach. Because how _could_ he be glad Steve was still here? How could he be glad that Steve had to deal with _him_? Steve was the most amazing person Bucky had ever known. Not perfect, just… amazing. He was so strong, so brave, so _good_ , so determined to do the right thing, come what may. He deserved that beautiful life, he deserved so much more than lying awake at whatever ungodly hour, comforting Bucky after a nightmare. Steve deserved a better Bucky than him, than this Bucky with all his scars and broken places that would never truly go away.

The words demanded to be said.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“That’s alright,” came Steve’s answer. “I’m like this too.”

There was nothing in Steve’s voice but gentle acceptance, nothing in his actions but care and compassion.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve murmured, the words rumbling in his chest where Bucky could _feel_ their warmth. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving.”

It dawned on Bucky then, something so powerful washing over him that he could only grasp the central truth of it. Because Steve _could_ have had that other life, he could have had a better friend, a better Bucky. But Steve chose not to.

Steve chose the broken Bucky. Steve chose _him._

And now Bucky let the tears fall.

They lay like that in silence, Steve’s fingers running through Bucky’s hair, gently and easily untangling the knots Bucky hadn’t been able to work through. Like he always did.

In the end, no matter how many wonderful friends Bucky might have—even a brother like Sam or adopted family like Princess Shuri and the kids—none of them could ever fill Steve’s place. Oh, they’d had their rough days, days when they fought or argued or struggled to understand the differences between who had they had been and who they were now. But in everything Steve did, at the bottom of it all, Bucky had found his brother’s love. And he had yet to find the bottom of _that_.

Even if Steve couldn’t fix everything completely, he made it… okay. He made it okay for Bucky to feel or react or say whatever he needed to. He made it okay to cry or be afraid or just needing a hug. If Steve couldn’t fix it, he made it okay to be broken.

Bucky shifted enough to bring his right hand up to dry his cheeks, then pressed his palm over Steve’s heart, felt the steady beat; he realized the shivering had stopped. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the smell of Steve, that warm, musky scent with hints of laundry soap and coffee and sweat and something well travelled.

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?”

Now he pressed his forehead to Steve's chest, just above his hand. “Thank you," he whispered. "For coming back.”

 _I’d climb every mountain_  
_And swim every ocean_

Steve’s hand stilled on his hair, and Bucky felt him take a deep breath. “You know why I really came back?” he said, very quietly. “Because you weren’t there. Not you. Not the Bucky I know. Not the Bucky who knows me. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

Bucky was smiling against Steve’s shirt. “Sap.”

Steve chuckled softly. “Look who’s talking.”

They lay in silence, Bucky listening to their breathing.

When Steve shifted his left arm to a more comfortable position under Bucky’s head, Bucky started, realizing that he’d almost dozed off. Oh, he was tired. But… he wasn’t afraid. He just… couldn’t be.

“Stay with me?” he mumbled.

“For as long as you need me,” Steve answered.

Bucky smiled sleepily. “To the end of the line, Stevie.”

Steve gave him an extra squeeze in response. “To the end of the line, Buck.”

Bucky snuggled up closer, and let his eyes close. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this safe.

 _Just to be with you_  
_And fix what I’ve broken_

They drifted off to sleep to the sound of two heartbeats and the night breeze in the trees, safe in each other’s arms. Two men, two best friends, two _brothers_ really, who across two centuries had somehow survived impossible odds, defying even death itself, to find each other again.

A sketchbook lay open on the bedside table, and when the morning sunlight slipped in the east window, it illuminated the beaming black-and-white smiles of two little boys sitting in an old wagon, leaning into each other. Beyond that, a few warm rays touched the living faces of the men, turning Steve’s hair to gold, smoothing the lines out of Bucky forehead… accentuating their look of utter peace and contentment.

One thing was the same.

Steve and Bucky were still holding on to each other. And they were not letting go any time soon.

 _Cause I need you to see_  
_That you are the reason_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos+comments always appreciated.  
> Any questions, ask away. Love to hear from my readers.  
> Thanks for reading!


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